


Road to the End

by hangthestars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:11:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hangthestars/pseuds/hangthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vignette-esque chronicle of the years between Sam's heavyweight showdown in Detroit and August 2014, focusing on Dean and Castiel's development into their End!verse selves, as well as life in Camp Chitaqua, through Castiel's eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unapologetic Destiel. Ratings will probably go up in later chapters.

Castiel's grace is the last straw.

Dean's been pushed. He's been hunted. Castiel's been his last resort, his ace in the hole, and every time an angel or a demon's gotten too close to Dean's throat, a quick prayer always saves his ass.

Or it used to.

They've been losing more cities every day. The Colt is nowhere to be found, and still -- _still_ \-- Dean Winchester had some hope. He was strained, stressed, he was fraying at the edges and turning into a tired, twisted thing, but he didn't break.

It isn't until this moment that Castiel realizes that his grace is what had kept the cracked pieces of Dean Winchester glued together. Funny how a cut -- nothing big, nothing overly painful, something Cas had offered to heal just to be kind -- could turn Dean into a mess.

Even if there's something to say, Castiel isn't savvy enough to say any of it, so he sits on Bobby's front step and watches Dean scream himself hoarse. _Yes! Fine! You win!_ He calls them bastards and monsters and winged dicks, and when his legs are shaking and the breath is almost out of him, he sinks to his knees in the gravel and begs. Castiel keeps his discomfort to himself, not because Dean's saying yes to Michael (which, in all honesty here, is their best bet after all they've lost, first to demons and then to the croats), but because Dean's supposed to be the floor they can't fall below. Dean's will, though hardly iron, has been strong enough for years to carry them through and bear the weight of an ever dwindling population of humans that haven't yet given up.

He's grateful there's no one here to see this. Even Castiel can barely stand to watch Dean Winchester kneeling in the dirt and crying.

 

\--

A week later, when Castiel is sure that he's well and truly mortal, he and Dean have a memorial behind the house. Dean gives him new clothes -- jeans, a t-shirt, a jacket that's seen better days but is infinitely more sensible than his old coat -- and they drop Jimmy Novak's suit and trenchcoat into a trashcan. Castiel pours the gasoline, and Dean lights an entire matchbook with one strike before tossing it in.

No one else is invited. Castiel watches Dean through the smoke, and he's struck by the silence.

It's never been this long since he's heard Dean's prayers.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean's people aren't the only ones out there, but survivors actually travel to get to him. Hunters gravitate toward Bobby's salvage yard. It makes their group the safest, armed with the most knowledge, and the they usually show up with civilians in tow.

When Sioux Falls begins to suffer from overcrowding, they find a nearby camp that's been long abandoned. The original sign's been knocked over and dragged away, and no one cares enough to try and find out what it used to be called. What matters is that these people have some sense of home.

Armed with nails, a few planks of wood, and a new name, Dean and Castiel take a couple hours in an afternoon to build them a new sign. Or, technically, _Dean_ builds a new sign, and Castiel sits nearby with a book and a bottle of whiskey.

Weirdly, humanity suits him. It's grungy and full of gross bodily functions, and this body is very, very small. He can't accurately describe the feeling of being unmade, of the great expanse that is grace drifting away until it just doesn't exist. He's not quite a shell. In fact, he thinks he might have a soul now, but he can't be sure. Along with the pain and the discomfort is a whole world of feeling.

Too much, really, and Castiel has to schedule his existential crisis in between missions and duties. It goes without saying that he's Dean's second; he may have been clueless about being human when his grace first dried up, but he's a better soldier than any of them. Even if he wasn't, he has a feeling they'd be like this anyway.

"You know," he muses, sitting in the grass while Dean carves letters into the wood beside him. "You've never managed to get religion right. Even when you find the right God, you keep on for hundreds of years after he's wandered away from you. But these... philosophies that people follow, I think they were onto something."

Dean glances over and squints. "Don't tell me you're going to get all hippie on me now."

Castiel makes a thoughtful face and shrugs. "Maybe."

"If you start with that zen crap, I'll tape your damn mouth shut." Dean says this while he's carving out a 'C'. The sign already reads 'Welcome To Camp', because even at the end of the world, they can afford to be friendly.

"Always so cynical," Castiel replies with a smile. He's a little drunk. That seems to be a constant these days, provided he's not being asked to hold a gun. He's at least responsible enough to shoot sober. Otherwise, it's whiskey and beer and absinthe when he can get his hands on it. Chuck wandered in last week with a paranoid twitch and a bag of high quality marijuana to sooth it, and Cas is pretty sure he likes that, too.

Dean doesn't exactly disapprove of his drug use. There were a couple recent nights with more than a fifth of whiskey and a joint between them, laughing at jokes that aren't even funny. It's the first time Castiel's seen Dean smiling in a long while.

"Realistic. People always hate the hippie asshole."

"You have so many _labels_ for everything. There aren't many people left, Dean. Sometimes you have to just let them _be people_."

Dean looks up, pensive. He watches him through a squint, still bent over the sign. The slope of his shoulders and the arch of his back do something to Castiel that he doesn't have a word for yet. Must be the whiskey. "You the expert on people now?"

"Nah." Castiel reaches over, impulsively gripping Dean's chin and planting a hard kiss to his mouth. "Just on you."

Dean doesn't answer. Castiel's surprised to see the man's eyes are closed when he pulls away. He counts the seconds (one, two, three) until they open again.

Dean goes back to the sign. Castiel smiles to himself and takes another swig of whiskey.


	3. Chapter 3

The first time they fuck, they're stone cold sober, riding a good mood off a demon hunt, and they spend about half an hour actually being clean after going to all the trouble to shower. Dean's cradled between Castiel's thighs, shoving into him hard enough to make the bed rock while Castiel pulls his hair. They learn that Cas likes to bite, that Dean likes to growl in his ear and make him say ( _shout_ , really) that yes, he likes it, he wants it, fuck, _fuck_ \--!

They're going to hear it from Bobby in the morning and they damn well know it.

 

  
\--

 

In any other place, they'd be getting weird looks and awkward questions. Fact is, nobody really gives a shit anymore. If their fearless leader wants to make imprints in his mattress with his ex-angel first officer, nobody can be assed to say much about it (except Bobby, who wants them to shut the hell up because _god damn it, Dean_ , that room's right above his).

A couple days later, they take a group on a supply run to a nearby town. The residents mostly killed each other, and the rest end up plugged while they're scavenging the abandoned stores and houses. It's low risk, so Bobby invites himself on the trip.

There's something about the day that's making Dean kind of nostalgic. They get back to camp and he makes them stop, insisting that everyone stand next to that sign so he can get a picture. It's a big damn deal; photos only get developed if there's someone in the camp who actually wants to go to the trouble, and that person's not Dean. It means trading something away to make it worth their while.

They're all tired from the run, but they indulge him, if only because Dean's a snappy bastard when he doesn't get what he wants. Castiel stands in behind Bobby with Riles and Johnny while Yaegar kneels beside the wheelchair. Johnny used to be an accountant, Riles and Yaegar came out of the same prison -- Riles a guard, Yaegar in for assault with a deadly weapon -- and Dean would say they're all good men in the same way. Past doesn't matter here. They're alive, they're valuable until proven otherwise. No exceptions.

 

\-- 

  
When Bobby Singer dies in a demon raid, all of Camp Chitaqua shows up at the salvage yard. Nobody mourns alone. They salt his body and burn it up in a bonfire, gathering around it to drink and tell stories about the old man. Dean pours one out for him right into the fire, and a few other people follow suit.

The pyre blazes for hours after everyone leaves. Dean and Castiel spend one more night in the house.

When they're alone, Dean finally cries.

By the morning, his game face is back, and they make the camp their permanent home base.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean kills a child, and it's the first croat death within the limits of Camp Chitaqua. Unavoidable or not, the image of the fearless leader plugging a four year old is...

  
\--

  
Dean's gone. Not _gone_ gone, but away. He's got some lead on the Colt and flatly refused any help. It's been a week since the kid.

When he's alone, he always takes the Impala. It's not big enough for a proper supply run, but it's big enough to store anything he finds relating to the mission at hand. The player still works, and Dean's homecoming is always heralded by the thump of classic rock.

Castiel knows another piece of Dean's foundation has cracked and split, because the Impala's still parked in the grass. One of the tires is slowly going flat. There are flecks of rust on the very edges of its body.

Hell if he knows when Dean's coming back. Hell if _anyone_ knows, so Chuck comes to him instead. Life goes on without Dean Winchester, but it's tenuous at best. There's a balance between deliberately keeping the peace (because any serious conflict ends up living in a cell until Daddy gets home), and fighting while there's the chance (because you won't get yelled until Daddy gets home, and you don't have to do any work while you're locked up).

It's always like this, and it's a big fat flaw in their social system; Dean's commander, judge, jury and father all in one, and he's still the guy you want to have a beer with. It means that nobody's comfortable when he's gone. There can be a dozen of his soldiers at home, standing guard and resolving disputes according to what Dean would say, but it's not the same.

  
\--

  
They've got this little _arrangement_. The arrangement is this: Dean doesn't give a rat's ass if Castiel fucks around with other people as long as it doesn't get up in his space. What he doesn't see doesn't hurt him, far as that goes. Cas is pretty sure it's not even about the sex; Dean's been cagier than ever since Bobby's death and it's made him territorial. If Castiel wants to drown himself in drugs and sex, he'll do it unbothered unless it encroaches on Dean's space when he's around to catch it.

Being curled up in bed with a woman named Verona when Dean finally gets home counts as encroachment.

Dean doesn't even attempt to be quiet once he's noticed. He drops his bag on the ground with a thunk, he kicks the chair so it scrapes across the floor before dumping his jacket over it. Verona startles, pushing herself up even though she's bleary. It's way, way too early in the morning (hell, it might not even qualify as morning yet), and the cabin smells like weed and sex.

Castiel deliberately takes his time, languidly sitting up in bed. He reaches out for Verona and draws her in against his side, letting her slump against his shoulder. She's one of their best techs, can make just about anything from a tin can and bits of string, and on top of that she's fucking gorgeous, all legs and thick black hair and dark skin. Exactly Dean's type, not that it matters right now.

"Welcome home," he says, irritatingly casual.

Dean takes his handgun out of its holster, pops out the empty magazine, and watches Castiel expectantly. Instead of speaking, he raises his eyebrows.

"Good mission?"

Still nothing.

Once Verona's awake enough to actually know what's happening, she takes one look at Dean before moving away and muttering, "Wow, it just got cold in here." Neither of them are watching her while she dresses (which she's probably happy for), and she's more nonplussed than embarrassed. There's an inherent risk in shacking up with Castiel when Dean isn't around, and everybody knows it.

Castiel gradually climbs out of bed, and he gives her an affectionate kiss on the cheek before she goes. "See you in the morning."

"Definitely." She raises a hand toward Dean on her way out. "Dean."

Dean nods. Other than that, he's silent while he continues to disarm himself, setting everything down on the table.

Castiel sits on the edge of the bed and stretches his legs out, resting his weight on his hands.

Still nothing.

Eventually, Castiel cocks his head. "You planning on saying hi or are we telepathic now?" Nothing, although Dean does shrug out of his plaid shirt. Cas would wonder when he became so cold if he didn't already know. "Dean."

Dean kicks off his boots and moves over to the dresser. He's grungy from dust and an apparently long drive, he has the heaviness in his shoulders that Castiel recognizes as disappointment. And his mouth is still shut.

Castiel lets Dean tug on his sweatpants before he gets up off the bed and intercepts him. Just putting his body in the way isn't enough, so he grabs Dean's shirt and forces him to pay attention. " _Dean_. You've been gone for two weeks."

"Sure have," Dean grunts, trying to walk past him again anyway.

Cas tightens his grip and resists. "Seriously? You're not even going to get mad?"

"No, Cas. I just want to go to sleep." Dean pushes him away and drops into bed. "It stinks in here."

"Dean." Castiel sits beside him and lays a hand on his shoulder. Dean doesn't respond, but he doesn't pull away either. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"Bullshit."

"No, _nothing_. Literally nothing. Zilch. Nada. Bubkis." He sighs heavily and barely -- just barely -- softens. "Big, fat nothing. The lead was dead before I even left camp. I don't want to talk about it."

"All right. Come on." Castiel pushes him down. There's a quiet protest, but Dean's either trusting or tired and settles on his stomach, letting Cas straddle his hips. When he pushes up the other man's shirt, his hands brush over familiar scars, the soft remnants of bullets and blades. He remembers where Dean got most of them; none of the marks are more than a few years old, and it's been a rougher time than most.

Since going mortal, human bodies are _fascinating_ to him. Castiel hadn't been able to comprehend human life before, with their small scope of perception and their fragility, and it had been rather easy for him to see them as something worth loving because they were mysterious and wonderful. The mystery has faded and the wonder has dulled, but it's all been replaced by something greater. Castiel has always been as he is, and his vessel hasn't changed much since he's found a home in it, so he touches Dean's body and muses on what it must have felt like to be a child, or a teenager, to be growing and unfinished.

When the knots in Dean's shoulders are starting to relax, he asks, "You want to know what happened while you were gone?"

"Mm. Was there drama?"

"'Course there was."

"Then no." Dean lets out a long breath. "Tell me in the morning."


	5. Chapter 5

It's a really, really good day.

No one's died in a week. The last supply run struck gold. It's beyond lucky to find a store that hasn't been picked clean by scavengers, but they came home yesterday with two trucks full of relatively clean supplies and food. Everyone's had more than enough to eat last night and this morning, and other than the very basic necessities Dean's given everyone a break.

So today, there's a football game on. Dean captains his side, and the opposing quarterback is an ex-police officer named Risa. Before the end of the world, they would have been the furthest thing from friends, but these days Risa's one step down on the ladder from Castiel. She's smart, she's quick, and Yaegar only pulls a fast one and scores on her because she trips.

Castiel doesn't know any of the rules, but to be fair, most people don't. It's more like a bunch of grown adults throwing a ball around and falling into the wet dirt. Johnny makes the last touchdown for Dean's team and immediately flops down on the ground. The whole thing devolves into a mud fight.

No one's been this happy in a long damn time.

 

\---

 

That night, Dean lets Castiel love him.

It isn't sex, not right away. People play until it gets dark, and then a smaller party takes up space in Dean's cabin. There's some whiskey to go around and hand rolled cigarettes of pot cut with tobacco. By the time people wander back home, it's just the two of them, drunk enough to feel warm and pleasantly stoned.

They're laughing, and halfway through they forget what the joke was in the first place. Dean looks like himself again. Even flushed with inebriation, he looks years younger, his smile making it all the way to his eyes now, giving him crow's feet.

Sex is usually such a desperate thing; their first orgasms are rushed and fumbled, and Dean is more likely to ask for it when he's hurting, when he's stressed, when he has a need for another body to come into contact with and be inside of. Their second round is always where the softness ends up, when Dean is too tired to be as aggressive as he was.

But when Castiel leans in to kiss him, Dean is surprisingly gentle in return. One kiss slides into another. Dean takes a breath, and when he comes back in, Cas nips at his mouth before sliding his tongue inside, groaning when Dean sucks.

They don't even try to get into bed. Their clothes end up discarded, scattered out over the carpet. As soon as there's nothing in the way, Castiel pushes Dean onto his back and crawls between his legs, running his hands over the insides of Dean's thighs before pushing them apart.

It would be smart to use a condom, but he's almost afraid to break away from Dean long enough to get one, as if Dean will get distracted and remember that he's broken. They barely get their hands on the lube; Cas has to reach for it, leaning forward far enough that he lays on Dean's chest to get it. He nuzzles the side of Dean's neck, his jaw, lips brushing over his stubble.

When Castiel pushes into him, Dean shudders and buries his face against his shoulder. The raw, primal need to be inside of another person and the groping urgency of lust that usually brings Dean to him in bed means that they usually fuck from behind, Dean's hand in his hair and his teeth digging into his shoulder. He knows that Dean's been gone too long when those bruises fade. But he's learned now that Dean Winchester wants to be able to look at his partner when he's on his back and letting himself be opened up this way.

So Castiel nuzzles Dean's cheek. He pushes him down, just so they can look at each other while Dean moves against the carpet, rocking in time with the thrust of Cas's hips. There are long, slow kisses laced with heavy moans and hands digging into Castiel's back. It's all gentle, easy and slow. Cas's orgasm happens quietly, the sound pressed into the kiss. When that sensitivity from coming fades a little, he crawls down and takes Dean into his mouth, letting him finish over his tongue.

Later, Dean falls asleep on his stomach, so tired and so relaxed that he doesn't even appear to dream.

 

\---

 

The sex doesn't last. Neither does the good feeling. On the way home from the next mission, Dean lets Cas doze off on his shoulder while he drives.

Cas knows that won't last, either.


	6. Chapter 6

They haven't slept together in weeks.

Dean literally won't come to bed most nights. He'll sleep for a couple of hours before Castiel even wanders in for the night. By the time Cas settles, Dean is up again. He's decided to spend the dark hours cleaning his guns, replacing parts that are rusting or broken. When he's done with that, he stares at maps. Sometimes he leaves marks or traces patterns, but most of it is just -looking, nursing a bottle of whiskey. 

And then, more often than not, he falls asleep on the table. If he's lucky, he'll make it to the bed and pass out on top of the blankets. If _Castiel_ is lucky, Dean will want a warm body to curl up around, and Cas will wake up to a dead weight and the stink of alcohol on Dean's breath.

\--

Dean Winchester is running out of hope. It's being eaten alive by zealoutry and the kind of obsession that feeds on a person's soul instead of propelling them forward.

He doesn't care about anything now but croats and demons. Dean hasn't taken care of a ghost or a monster in what seems like forever. He used to; saving people still mattered then, or it might have just made him feel good. The most he's done is kill a vampire, and only because it was in his way.

Tracking the Devil is a real bitch. He teleports, and the other angels locking up Heaven doesn't seem to have affected his power in the least. Knowing exactly where he is is useless. He's always gone before they can arrive, assuming they run into a demon who can actually tell them anything.

They usually don't. 

\--

Except when they do. 

It takes three days and enough dead croats to fill a village, but they get their hands one of Lucifer's favorites. A dedicated loyalist with more than a little insanity behind the eyes, he has a smile like a wolf and stinks of sulfur.

And they stand a chance of making him talk, because he cries like a toddler when holy water touches his skin. Most demons at least _try_ to grit their teeth and bear it. He must be funny or give great massages, because he's definitely not a favorite for his ability to keep secrets.

They're close, so close to getting something good out of him, when one of their own attacks. Verona topples the demon to the floor along with the chair he's tied to. The first thing she does is sink her knife into his temple, and by the time they pull her away, the demon's face is so destroyed that he couldn't tell them anything if he wanted to.

Dean's always had a temper, but no one expects the noise he makes, or that he would take a swing at Verona while two of them are still holding her. He cuts her across the chest and nearly takes off Yaegar's hands in the process. They let her go out of self preservation.

Cas is the only one who doesn't look away.

\--

Without needing to discuss it, everyone on the mission agrees to lie. The demon got Verona. The demon was viscious. The demon is why no one should look at Verona's face during the funeral, before she's covered and burned.

Listening to Dean deliver his part of the eulogy makes Cas physically ill. He stands at the very back of the crowd and gets drunk, nursing a bottle of whiskey until he can see the bottom and wandering away before they even light the pyre. Instead of mourning the way he's supposed to, he goes home to get crossfaded and pass out, not even bothering to crawl under the covers.

He wakes up when he feels Dean's weight on the other side of the bed. Any other night he would react with grateful surprise, but this time he stares at Dean's back and says:

"She wasn't even supposed to come with us on that mission."

The only answer he gets is, "Go to sleep, Cas."

It's sick that Dean's apathy hurts more than losing their friend.

Cas wonders what he's doing here.


End file.
